


A Warrior's Hands

by HardiganCaptain



Category: Warrior (2011)
Genre: F/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-02
Updated: 2013-04-02
Packaged: 2017-12-07 06:30:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,132
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/745382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HardiganCaptain/pseuds/HardiganCaptain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Warning: Borderline Abuse.</p>
<p>For a man who uses his hands to pummel the life out of other men, they can be remarkably sensitive.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Warrior's Hands

You can’t help the way your smile trembles at the edges when he sits down on the bench, your cheek rests against the sweat soaked hair when he wraps an arm around your waist to pull you close. The hand resting on your hip feels like it’s burning you even through your jeans, the blood on his palm making the spot damp. You press your lips against his hair, silently trying to convey how proud you are of him, how amazing you think he was, how relieved you feel that he’s come out with just a few small cuts and a bit of swelling. When his hold loosens you step back, the hands that were resting on his shoulders sliding down to his wrists. You can feel how hot his hands are even from that close. 

Tongue running over your lower lip you ignore the heat in his eyes, the animalistic rage that’s still simmering just behind the dull way he’s staring at you. Your nails slip on the medical tape, the blood and swelling making it hard to find the end of it. When you do you have to fight to break it loose, almost snarling in frustration when it refuses to come undone. His lips twitch in amusement at your furious concentration, the way you catch your bottom lip with your teeth as you struggle. 

“Scissors?” his voice is a low rasp, the guttural sounds he made in the ring has left his throat raw. You shake your head stubbornly, giving him a triumphant grin when you finally get the tape to come undone before making quick work of the other. 

Slowly going down to your knees between his feet you lift his right hand, your thumb brushing over the swollen knuckles before lifting it to your mouth to kiss each one. His fingers tense around your palm, unable to fully grip or extend, the thick digits spasming with the effort. He watches as you slowly wipe his hands clean with a warm rag, the tan cloth slowly darkening to burgundy though at least now you can see despite all the blood most of it is from his opponents. Every scrape receives a soft caress of your lips, twining your fingers with his slowly pulling them straight before repeating the gesture. For tools so abused you know they can be remarkably sensitive, dragging your thumb along his palm before turning it over and tracing the tendons. 

You’re on your back before you realize he’s moved, his body forcing yours to the ground, his stiff fingers tangling in your hair. The kiss is everything you’ve come to expect after his fights, possessive, ruthless. More a claim of ownership than an affectionate gesture and you can’t help the pleased whine in your throat as his hips grind against yours as though he’s trying to go through you. 

“Tommy! Jesus Christ!” Paddy’s rough voice breaks through the haze of lust you’re drowning in, only for a moment before Tommy’s hand is sliding down the side of your throat, the skin bruising from how tightly he’d held you, as he travels down to tear your shirt from your chest to sink his teeth into the top of your breast.

It takes Paddy dumping a bucket of arctic cold water from a tub full of ice to get him back to reality. His eyes are glossy, his breath coming in shallow pants as he stares down at you before his expression turns to one of horror. 

You can feel the bruises on your skin, the scrapes his teeth and stubble left behind, but the only thing you feel is disappointment from being interrupted. His hands are hesitant, lightly running his fingers over the injuries before his face carefully goes blank as he stands. You glance over at Paddy, lips curling slightly to try and reassure him that you really are alright. It doesn’t do more than earn you a look of pity before he rounds on Tommy. Some of things that come out of his mouth are so cruel, such low blows that you force yourself to stand only to find your throat is too bruised to be of any use. Tugging on his arm does nothing, his face red and within inches of Tommy’s, as he continues to berate his son. Taking a step back and to the side you shoulder check him hard enough to knock him off balance, motioning with a toss of your head the murderous expression in Tommy’s eyes. 

Throwing his hands up in disgust Paddy turns on his heel and storms out, muttering under his breath about something you can’t quite catch before he slams the door closed so hard it pops open again. Tommy won’t look at you, guilt is pouring off of him in waves, he jerks away when your fingers brush his shoulder. Angry you grab his upper arm and yank, and you keep doing so until he turns towards you though his eyes are lowered to the ground.

Trailing your fingers over his temple you lightly brush along his cheeks, down to his jaw, insisting that he lift his face to meet yours. You stop the apology you see in his eyes from coming out by pressing your fingers against his lips, staring at him for a moment to give him time to see you mean it before replacing your fingers with your lips. He doesn’t return the kiss, every muscle is straining against stepping away from you. Sighing you step back from him, reaching down to take his hand in yours. 

It takes several moments of nuzzling and kissing his palm before he finally thaws and pulls you in, his arms wrapping so tightly around you that you can feel your ribs screaming in protest. He murmurs apologies against your temple, brushing the soft skin there with kisses. 

You know that tomorrow he’ll spend the entire day showering you with affection, his hands hesitant before touching you as though you’re fragile as china. It’s not that you enjoy the bruises, or the judgmental looks filled with disgust and pity. It’s knowing that even when he’s half animal, still partly that dark beast that prowls inside the ring, the injuries are all superficial. Each bruise made an accident that he can’t quite control, each scrape of his teeth not nearly as hard as it could be, as though even half mad he knows better than to break you as he does the men in the ring. What’s a few marks compared to the way this hands can tear you down only to set you so high you’re sure that you’ll never come down? To ride out a turbulent storm, to feel the way the rain kisses your skin when it slowly loses its elemental fury.


End file.
